


The Chaining of Melkor

by Doitsuki



Category: The Book of Lost Tales - Book I, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood, Confinement, Drabble, Existential Crisis, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mental Instability, Multi, Noncon bondage, Other, Psychological Trauma, Remember it's a drabblefic and nothing more XD, Self-Harm, Solitary Confinement, This isn't a darkfic hooh, Torture, enslavement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 11:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4261242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Book of Lost Tales has some fucked up, cruel actions against a less-than-diabolical Melkor by the Valar. I have made a little rewrite of events, keeping in line with canon (see the entire chapter, read pages 100-123) for um the first chapter here. Everything else is completely made up. Btw I'm biased against the Lost Tales Valar because I really love Melkor - he is my cinnamon roll ok and thus we will see shit go DOWNNNNNN<br/>Tulkas is an ass in this fic, you have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Melkor had heard from Illuvatar himself that none of the Valar were mightier than he. And he believed it as he sat upon his iron throne, bathed in the light of flaming braziers and the flickers of living shadow.

“Kneel before me, and perhaps I shall forgive thee for all thy actions have wrought.” Smirking and proud, Melkor would gloat for eternity if Manwë surrendered to his will. The King of the Valar! Lofty and high in his fancy palace atop his fancy mountain. Bending now to his own brother, whom he had contested with for all his life. Murmurs of dissent arose the moment Melkor shut his mouth, yet still Manwë stepped forth and went to kneel. And then Tulkas happened. Melkor’s cocky grin tore into a gasping shout as Tulkas smote him right in the face, breaking mortal bones and molesting spirit at once.

“HOLY SHIT _GET AWAY!”_ Melkor cried, and all his servants of the dark burst forth in great numbers from pillars and endless halls. They were Melkor’s own self dispersed and with bodily form, yet far weaker than Tulkas, who could not be bested in physical combat. Melkor clutched his face while bleeding terribly in a torrent of black and red, split lip gushing. Thus he grew wrathful in his damned form, eyes blazing with ice so cold it burned. Smoky white filled the room, flashes of blood and flame all from his own servants stirring the air. And then there was a hand reaching for his neck. He dodged it and raised his fists in defence, screaming at whatever _dared_ to assail him. A click. Bright green, searing red, shackles at his wrists and a chain he could hardly see. Then he was swept off his feet by a strong gust of wind, and knew it was his brother against him. He kicked and flailed, causing no pain to the one who held him. Tulkas did not have Melkor’s height, but managed to drag him by both ankles upside down. The Valar and their host all were in form alike to Melkor, appearing as people yet in control over the binding of spirit and body. Melkor, in his mountainous height that reached to the top of his great cavernous dwelling was cast out of the gates, most of his servants having fled. There he was beaten to his knees, unable to fight much for the shackles at his feet and wrists were too restrictive. Now they did not burn. They _squeezed_. As did the chains wrapped thirty times around Melkor’s being, and Aulë was glad he’d made Angaino so long. Melkor could not discard his fána, this weakened, _aching_ body. He was trapped. No longer capable of movement he had just his mouth, but was gagged the moment he drew another breath. His opinion did not count for anything in the determining of his fate at the next Council of the Valar. Cast down at Manwë’s feet, he lay prone, blood boiling with rage. And then he heard it. Imprisonment. Servitude. _Three ages_ for the former. _Four_ for the latter.

 

~

 

The first day he spent with his mouth free, he screamed all the obscenities his vast wealth of knowledge had to offer. The seventh day, he began making up some new ones. The fifteenth day, he thought it was not so bad, that he could handle the comforting darkness all around. The sixteenth day he realised it was not just the dark. There was _nothing_ here. No heavy blackness to cloak his bare shoulders, no tangible silence to hold and wield as a new terror. Not even the sound of his own body working. He was bound, unable to move anything other than his face, and wondered if he was going to die.

 

The second year, he thought it was ridiculous that he’d ever doubted his own immortality. A child of Eru- _that **damned** being who constricted and stole all Melkor’s creations-_ had no reason to fear death. Yet Melkor knew pain, and remembered how many times Tulkas’s iron-clad fist slammed into his skin and bone. Muscles were torn that day from how hard he wailed. And Tulkas _laughed_ , the bastard.

 

The tenth year, Melkor lost track of time for it was not his dominion nor care to think of the rise and fall of light. What sense did it make to measure how long he was alive when he would live forever, anyway? Everyone in Aman was immortal. He wondered if the elves existed yet. What they looked like, aside from pointy ears and long hair. If they smiled at each other in the sunlight, and quailed when alone at night, frightened by the dark. Melkor wished to imitate the latter, and shivered in his chains. They rattled with such incredible volume that he shrieked and moved by instinct to get away, only finding his own might thrown back at him as his body was wrenched into place. Now the chains were tighter. He couldn’t breathe. Did he even need to?

 

The hundredth year, Melkor grew afraid of the silence. What brought it to be so unnatural and consuming, in his face and all around him? He glanced down at his body. Nude, save for the red and silver metal in contact with his skin. Manwë had thrown him to the ground before every being in Valinor and shown the corruption eating away at Melkor’s physical form. Scars from his battles, most at Tulkas’s hands. Discolouring all over his skin, bruises and internal bleeding. How he quivered on the cold, hard floor when his chains grew too uncomfortable for him to lay still. Manwë’s boot upon his head. Tulkas mocking him, the knuckles of his fists white with tension. Still Melkor was prideful. He would not beg. Manwë thought he’d given his brother mercy with his sentencing, and Melkor had never heard the word to be so wrong.

 

After five hundred years, Melkor offered himself a glass of water to ease his aching throat. It would do him no good to scream anymore, for he doubted Manwë in all his mercy could hear him. Every time he remembered he had no powers of creation in this space where there was nothing but him, he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. See? He could still make things if he wanted to. They had not taken his might and creativity yet. Sometimes he twisted his face up to see if he could make patterns in the blood as it dripped down his body. Other times he shrieked at it in frustration when it did not go where he wanted. Rarely he would laugh at how ridiculous it was, that he tried to make things without use of his hands. And then he remembered. He was an Ainu; he did not need hands. What was he doing here?

 

After a thousand years, Melkor still knew not how long he’d served his time. He remembered only faintly the world of light, and had nothing but his dwindling memories of his imprisonment for company. One day he’d squeezed his eyes shut and seen colours behind his closed lids. _Colours!_ Bright yellows and greens, like grass and firelight. It excited him, and he giggled like a child. It had been so long since he’d seen anything but his own body and the nothingness of his vault. Now on this thousandth year’s first day, he remembered the colours and smiled. His lips were dry against jagged teeth; he lacked the hydration to salivate or even cry properly these days. His body did not regenerate.

 

After two thousand years, the phosphenes were all he could see. The darkness had long swallowed up his body, and any movements he made were only to be heard. The cold, harsh clinking and his skin against itself. At least he had movement in his toes and fingers.

 

After two thousand and five hundred years, he reached an identity crisis of epic proportions. Who was he, and why were there faint voices in his head telling him “Mightiest of all the Ainur, Melkor, Lord of Knowledge and Mental Strength.” Pah! Mental strength? Why, he was probably the most broken person in existence! Oh no, not a person. He was much better than that, wasn’t he? A Lord, and an Ainu. Mighty? Well, he could certainly try.

A day after Melkor broke every bone he could move, he wished he could claw his skin off with his long talons. Not fingernails, neatly trimmed and polished smooth. He had _claws_ befitting the most evil Dark Lord of all, which he was sure was him. Long forgotten in his memory was Mairon, a fledgling lieutenant with a good mind for tactics and an even better one for evil. Ally or usurper? There could only be one Dark Lord.

“Me…” whispered Melkor, his voice hoarse and soundless. “Only me….”

 

After two thousand, seven hundred and fifty years, Melkor knew he had forgotten things and it frightened him. Was he not meant to be all-knowing with a greater mind than anyone else? But no-one existed to compare himself to, thus he grew doubtful of what he really was. Long hours he spent deliberating what the word “Ainu” meant, and why it would not leave his head. Now and then he would move his lips in semblance of song, but his voice was no longer there. He had no blood left to bleed, nor the strength in his throat to swallow. He felt as if his life was drying up. He wondered what it felt like to be _alive_.

 

After three thousand years, Melkor was released. It came as a burst of light and gentle winds that felt more akin to a freezing blizzard against exposed skin. His mouth agape, he lay on his side at Manwë’s bidding. Manwë said something in his soft, musical voice but it made little sense to Melkor, who still was bound in the sunlit gardens of Valinor. Manwë figured his brother would enjoy a little peace and relaxation before he went into Tulkas’s service. Melkor had been still for so long and felt so little, he did not know what to do. The grass was a terrible itching like knives dragging across his skin, skin that was covered all over in his own blood. Manwë did not see the blood. To him, it was little more than a manifestation of Melkor’s horrid thoughts, cast into sight as the dried streaks of black and red swept around disused muscles and tight chains. He knew not of how Melkor could not change his appearance any further than a mortal man could. Yet he was still disgusted by what he saw. Melkor was incapable of reading the expression that crossed Manwë’s face. Involuntary convulsions wracked his body which still could not comprehend the prospect of freedom, and the chains were stripped away until only the shackles remained. There they would stay, forever.

“Now, brother, does that not feel nice? The wind in thy hair, the scent of fresh flowers… Does it not move thee to do _good_ in the world and forget thy misdeeds of the past?” Manwë made a point to remind Melkor of what he’d done, knowing the Dark Lord remembered his old agenda for death and deceit. But Melkor did not, and could hardly be considered a Lord of anything as he lay now, naked and bloodied and confused.

Manwë was understanding before unreasonable, and thought that perhaps Melkor had been raging all alone until he lost his voice. For such a fate to befall any of the Ainur was simply shocking! He thought that to himself, and called for Nienna to attend to Melkor. She knew at once that Melkor was not of sound body and spirit and told Manwë as much, to which he replied “Heal him and let your duties be done. He is not of my concern just yet.”

Nienna’s hands were warm and soothing against anything they touched, but to Melkor they felt like a great oppression coming to do Eru knows what to him. He recoiled, eyes still blinking rapidly with pupils so large they blackened most of his eyes. The light stung him. Where was it coming from? He could hardly see, all white and red and oh there were demented spirits clawing across his body and he could not _move_...

Nienna offered an invigorating surge of energy through limbs she knew were nearly dead and jumped as Melkor lashed out at her. Tears rolled down her cheeks for the pity she felt at his wretched state. Melkor had always hated her but she’d only ever felt sorry for him – now he looked so frightened and sorry against his own will, it moved her to ask Manwë what had happened. Manwë looked at her, incredulous.

“Why, he has served half of his sentence for the crimes committed against Arda. Wert thou not at the Council that day?”

“But Manwë, _look_ at him…” Nienna ran her fingers over Melkor’s chain-marked torso and he cringed, folding into himself like a plastic bottle being crushed. His breath came in short, irregular gasps and he coughed now and then, the sound raw and scraping. “Give him something to drink…” suggested Nienna, and Manwë formed a pitcher of water from pure cloud-condensation then offered it to his brother. Melkor still lay and put his hands over his eyes, trying to stop his vision from splitting his head with such atrocious brightness. But then the darkness was back and he could not take it – he curled into a ball, not knowing what to do. Manwë growled.

“I don’t have time for this.” He poured the entire pitcher of water over Melkor’s head, then the rest of his body to clean him a bit. It was _freezing_ and Melkor yelped like a cat thrown into a blender. “Gather thy wits, brother.” The pitcher was refilled, and went right into Melkor’s face to discourage him from choking on dry words any longer. Nienna did not dare to push Manwë away, but knew what he was doing could not possibly be right.

“Stop that!” she cried, picking up Melkor’s shivering body in her arms and remembering a second too late that he wasn’t a corpse. Melkor gave a violent shove with arms that had been by his sides for far too long, and Nienna felt a pain at her chest. Manwë in his ire then rose and pulled Melkor to his feet, holding him by the hair.

“Nyeh!” spat Melkor, clawing at his brother with hands too uncoordinated to do much. And his fingers were still broken. Nienna hadn’t gotten to them yet.

“What in the name of all things proper is _wrong_ with thee?” Manwë shook Melkor around by hair that was so black and long it coiled like snakes for several yards into the distance. “Hast thou not learnt o’er all this time what is expected of thee?”

_‘How was I supposed to when there was no-one to teach me?’_ whispered a voice inside Melkor’s head. His comprehension was slowly returning, and it distressed him further with every word Manwë spoke. He tried to speak his mind, a deep ‘Nggg’ followed by a nervous grunt all he could manage. What was he supposed to say? That the righteous King of the Valar had wronged him? Such a thing was inconceivable… he remembered this. Manwë was always right. Melkor, always wrong. And when he _wasn’t_ , it was always Illuvatar who was right instead. Or something like that.

_‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s too bright. My head hurts. I don’t want this. Where am I?’_ Melkor’s thoughts did not go unnoticed – Nienna in silence listened to them, and calmed him with an outpouring of her own gracious will. Like honey her reassurances were, thick and sweet with some degree of substance that fed into Melkor’s thought. He closed his eyes, and Manwë stopped shaking him. The two events were not related. Manwë dropped Melkor then as he felt the ground shake. Someone was coming.

“Ah, crap.” said Nienna.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> had to split the previous chapter but AYY lookit all the words I wrote in one day BD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for justifying negligence and physical abuse (also Melkor being weeeird ahah I did some research into the effects of solitary confinement so I hope it's legit. Shit's heartbreaking, bruh.)

“Oh, is this for me?” Tulkas smiled and opened his arms to Manwë, who made a nervous shrug in lieu of a hug.

“Y-Yes, Melkor is here, as agreed and promised those three ages ago. Feels like yesterday we first had our taste of peace, hm?”

Tulkas nodded, then slammed his fist into an open palm. “Should’ve been much longer ago that we decided to imprison this fucker, let me tell you. Always wanted to punch him in the face. Still do.”

“Tulkas, please. His nose is already broken for all eternity, his spirit as much. Has he not suffered enough?” Nienna received blank looks in reply, Manwë in disbelief more so.

“Nienna, we talked about this. Thou cannot just go and let thy heart guide the future of one promised to punishment.” Manwë nudged Melkor with his foot in the direction of Tulkas. The minute Melkor squinted enough to let a little light into his eyes, he got a face full of his worst nightmare and fainted right there. Tulkas picked him up like a soggy carpet (with two fingers and resentment) and tucked him under one arm. “If I said I’ll take good care of him, I’d be lying. Have fun, you two! Four ages will be over before you know it. I doubt he’ll be changed much by then.” The minute he stomped off, Nienna turned and sobbed with anger towards Manwë.

“He is thy _brother_ , Manwë! How can you _do_ this?!”

“Calm thyself… He gets what he deserves. Remember not of his crimes against the world? His marring of our beautiful Arda, his torment of beasts innocent and free… He is _wrong_ , Nienna. An abomination. No brother of mine.”

Nienna wailed then for the sorrow she felt in this abject horror of a situation could not be expressed any other way. Manwë rolled his eyes in the firm belief that she was overreacting (as usual) and left her alone.

A day later, Melkor awoke.

In the arms of Tulkas.

Just a crack he opened his eyes and saw the ceiling, paintings of great heroic deeds plastered there in a myriad of colours. Such a cacophony of brightness assailed his dark vision and he turned away, the stimulation too much to bear. Ah! There was something touching him! Many somethings, to be exact! Ten of them! No, twelve… thirteen… Not chain links, but rough and tense all the same. Tulkas’s giant hands clenched just as Melkor went to move, and Melkor cried something awful until he was released. Tulkas threw him to the floor then rose in all his majesty, leering down at the fallen Vala.

“Look at you, the mightiest of all the Ainur. At my feet, more lowly and pathetic than the worst and smallest of your creations. Oh wait! You’ve never made a thing in your life. Just twisted what others have.” Thus Tulkas found his verbal tirade complete, and spoke with his fists instead. He scooped Melkor up and smacked him across the face, snarling at him to talk back, to _dare_ and strike him. Melkor could think of nothing more than escaping the pain and noise, so much light, endless torment… but where was his power when he needed it? No fire came from his hands, and there was nothing alight in his eyes. Just black. Pure, pure black. A punch to the eye. Now purple. _Damn it._

There was not a soul who bothered Tulkas in his moments of rage, and his Maiar hid where they could as Melkor got his pale ass beat. For days it continued until Melkor resembled literal pulp, and had to be patched up by a few cosmetically talented folk. Tulkas wanted a body to wreck, a face to watch and a voice to hear beg for mercy. A pile of mashed muscle, bone and coagulated blood could not do much. And so Melkor’s spirit endured without choice, rarely with the opportunity to show any reaction be it voluntary or not.

 

Two hundred years passed, and Tulkas thought he’d never tire of beating Melkor into submission. But without any new reactions, it wasn’t as exciting as it could be. So, he decided to show Melkor what life could be like in the absence of punishment.

“Get out there and walk around.” said Tulkas, shoving Melkor through the front door of his house. Sunlight bathed all of Aman in a fresh morning glow, but Melkor could only see colours and brightness. No-one had bothered to heal his eyesight. Nobody deemed it necessary. Manwë even advised against it, saying that ‘ _Perhaps it is better that Melkor does not see the beauty of this world created and healed without him, lest he become enraged and strive to destroy it all again.’_ Unanimous agreement lead to Melkor feeling he’d be half-blind for the rest of his life. The only one of Eru’s children without the gift of sight.

He stumbled away from Tulkas into the grassy fields of some place he couldn’t remember the name of. And he ran, as best he could. Through the green, past the blue, through the grey until he found the darkest place in Aman. The southern Pelori mountains, where in the North Mandos kept his Halls of the Dead and a general gloominess hung about. Melkor could hide nowhere other than here, for his body was too large and he could not escape it. His hair formed great, swirling rivers of cold lifelessness from his ‘hiding place’, and if any of the Valar came by they would at once know it was him. But here, only the most minute light touched him and his back was warmed by the sun. He felt oddly safe, with his arms wrapped around himself and knees pulled up. If only he had a cloak, he could pass as a giant mountain. Providing anyone who looked at him had the same eyesight he did.

As he did every day, he opened both hands and looked over his knees at them. Now that he was comfortably alone, the softest of orange-gold flames danced in his palms and licked all the way up to his elbows.

“Mmm…” He sighed and rested his head against a nearby mountaintop. The tips of his hair glowed red-hot, and his eyes turned bright crimson. Playing with fire had long since been his favourite activity, part of the eternal fantasy he held in regards to finding the Flame Imperishable and holding it for himself. He always strove to burn the hottest he could, just for that feeling. He could only imagine what it felt like. Thus he became lost in his thoughts of being consumed by luxurious flame and was enjoying the velvety warmth against his skin when he felt a prickling at his shoulder. Instantly he grew tense and glanced there, pupils shrinking to almost nothing. A single elf stood, staring at him. Melkor did not cry out or move to crush the elf with the side of his head. Instead, he stared back. The elf scowled.

“You gonna tell me about that fire or what?”

Melkor blinked. He didn’t know how to respond; he’d long forgotten _how_. He repeated the first word the elf said. “You…?”

“Fëanaro. Hotter than the Flame Imperishable.” Fëanaro put his hands on his hips and tapped his foot impatiently upon Melkor’s exposed collarbone. “I want to make fire too. Tell me how.”

At the mention of his oldest desire, Melkor grinned and swept Fëanaro into his burning right hand. So joyous was he at having someone knowledgeable to talk to, his flames grew hotter and his lips split in a sharp-toothed smile. Fëanaro had burnt to a crisp before Melkor could say anything at all.

 

~

 

“I can’t believe you _killed_ him!” cried Aulë while pleading with Mandos to hurry his task along. “That was Fëanor, greatest of all my students save for the one you stole all those years ago. Oh, Manwë will hear about this, certainly…”

Melkor blinked thrice and watched Mandos work. Slowly but surely, Fëanor’s body was coming together out of thin air. He ignored Aulë, more interested in Mandos’s skill at creation.

 _‘I wish I could do that.’_ So strong was his desire there, his thoughts were spoken aloud. Mandos looked up. Then to Aulë.

 

When Tulkas beat him next, Melkor did not shrivel in fear, nor did he fight back. His muddled mind had fixed upon a single goal, one that he would remember and not stray from until the day he died. He wanted to make things, tangible and living things that would listen to him and act upon his will. They would not speak unless asked to. They would not look at Melkor unless he wished it. Yes, that would be nice. Controlled. Safe. Something of his own. Every time he thought about it, laughter bubbled up within him and his Master choked him senseless until his lips turned blue.

 

“I think he’s going mad.” said Tulkas one day as he strode in the gardens beside Manwë, taking long and measured steps. His eyes were fixed on the ground and all the little flowers peeped at him from their colourful clusters. Fallen leaves fluttered around Manwë’s feet, stirred up by his concerned breeze.

“He’s always been rather strange and disagreeable. Madness is probably another one of his ‘unique character flaws.’”

“Did he say that to you?”

Manwë shook his head. “No.”

“He makes for a shitty servant, you know. Won’t lift a finger for me! I have to do everything myself and really, the only use for Melkor is as a punching bag.”

“As long as thou findeth use for him, that is good. He is serving beneath thee as _punishment_ , remember. It is not supposed to be a holiday stay with his nemesis.” Manwë flexed his fingers as he held his hands behind his back. “Has he shown any ill intent towards thou?”

“Eh, not much. Hasn’t said anything really since I got him, and…” Then Tulkas stopped. “Manwë, he’s really weird. Doesn’t rant about how high and mighty he is, nor does he make any threats or insults towards me. He just… sits in corners… and doesn’t move. Sometimes he laughs at nothing.” Standing still, he scratched at his beard in thought. “Pretty sure he’s gone insane.” To his surprise, Manwë chuckled and shook his head again.

“How is that any different to how he was before? Come now, it’s reasonable to assume he no longer holds that infuriating superiority and malice in his heart. He has learnt of the joys of freedom. Maybe he keeps to himself because he does not want thee to hurt him.”

“I’m still gonna bash his head in if he looks at me funny.”

Manwë sighed, a tranquil smile curving his lips. “As is thy right.”

 

One month later, Melkor lay in waiting behind the mountains with his face poking through a cluster of dying trees. He could see _elves_ in the distance, and they intrigued him. Studying life was the key to creating it. Watching for hours on end was better than staying in Tulkas’s house, hiding. Well, he was still hiding… only he was doing it outside. Surely there was some merit to that.

His scattered mental strength could not come together for anything other than this purpose, that was to create his own beings and live in peace among them. The memories that tugged at him that reminded Melkor of the Lord he’d been were tasty yet faint on his tongue. He wanted _more_. It was then, as he saw one particular elf sauntering in his direction, that his desire flagged for a moment. This one wore a shining crown of pure gold, finely crafted just like the rest of his outfit. Sweeping blue robes… Faded chocolate-brown hair.

_‘Oh, he’s pretty… But he looks annoyed.’_

Finwë, the twice-married elf king of the Noldor approached the hidden Vala. The look on his face said ‘ _Don’t think I can’t see you there…’_ and in his body was a great weariness, shown in both stature and eyes. In silence he surveyed Melkor’s scarred grey skin and dark feathers around the collar of his cloak.

“What are you supposed to be?”

Melkor blinked. “Is it not…. Obvious?”

“Oh yes, you’re the one who killed my son. Charming, aren’t you? Who are you hiding from this time?”

“E-eeh….” Melkor shuffled back, the earth groaning as his boots delved great trenches in retreat. “Did _I_ do that?”

“Don’t play games with me, fallen Lord. I know who you are, and what you have done. I forbid you from any interaction with my oldest son-” Finwë’s words cut to a breathy gasp as Melkor pushed down on his head. Not intending to split it open, oh no. Melkor was gentle in how he nudged his index finger back and forth, feeling the swirl of Finwë’s fine dark hair.

“You’re soft…” he mumbled, petting the Noldo king all the way down his back.

“Y-You stop that right now!” Finwë did his best to glower but all Melkor noticed was the crimson blush at his cheeks, and found it amusing how he squeaked indignantly when he was pushed over. “So fragile, too. Tell me, father of Fëanaro. Will you be mine?”

“EXCUSE ME?!” Finwë spluttered and jerked his body away from Melkor’s touch. He was lying on his back and moved to rise but there was a finger keeping him pinned, pressing into his stomach. “Get away from me! Oh, I was a fool to think _you_ of all folk would even consider atonement for your crimes…”

“Crimes?!” Melkor cried aloud and flicked his finger up to shut Finwë’s jaws with a loud _clack_.

“RRgh!” said Finwë through his teeth and found he could not open his mouth to say anything more. Melkor bemoaned the memory of these accusations, and felt the forced guilt of being told over and over again that his attempts to create pleasing things in the world counted for _crimes_.

“Thou understand not a thing! They are lies, all lies! Lies, _lies, **lies!”**_ Melkor’s hand began shaking, and Finwë prayed to Mandos he would not suffer too terrible a death. “They corrupt the minds of ye starry-eyed folk! It is not fair! I will show thee. I will remake thee into something beautiful. Thou shalt see.” And then Melkor’s finger was gone from Finwë’s face and the Noldo made to run for his life. Melkor picked him up and gagged him with his own hair, folding him up into a little ball. Finwë was then tied up behind Melkor’s head, absolutely _covered_ in the thick, matted black mess of his hair. He choked until he was silent, breathing shakily through his nose. Melkor took his new pet home that night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor begins to develop coping strategies, or at least he tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mindfuckery ahead

Tulkas did not expect much of Melkor when he saw his servant walk through the door. Melkor was jittery, excitement mistaken for the hyperactivity that had plagued him since his unchaining. Tulkas found it difficult to grow used to.

“Oi! You going to act like a proper servant now or what?” It was worth a try. Melkor glanced at him and grinned like a fool, then ran off. He even _ran_ like a madman, feet gliding across the floor and steps cushioned by the motion of his entire body as if he was afraid to make too much noise. Indeed, his passing only sounded like soft, heavy thumps borne on broken wings of dark wind. He looked like a demented grasshopper running through molasses.

Tulkas shook his head. When would Melkor learn? While the Melkor of three ages ago was a thing nobody wanted to see again, surely anything would be better than this… deformed creature of twisted malice and hate, now so sensitive even the slightest stimulus could send him into a panic. Tulkas still had over three thousand years left to utilise Melkor’s service. And he would use them _well._

Now, Tulkas did not know this himself but in the time he had been in Melkor’s close presence (unavoidable since they shared the same house), his spirit had taken on a minor taint. It only showed when his temper flared to the highest point – like Oromë he was quick to anger and even less controlled in his wrath. Melkor was terrifying in his moments of rage, but knew how to bide his time and seethe quietly for the gratification of a greater victory later on. This part of him had grown in Tulkas, enabling the Champion of the Valar to plot his lesser angers together into a grand vengeance. Against Melkor, who had done him nothing wrong in the two hundred years of his service.

‘ _What service?’_ thought Tulkas, a snarl curling his lips. _‘All he does is hide and cringe when I go to bother him. Whether I keep him locked up or let him outside, it’s all the same… He has had it too easy here, methinks. Perhaps if I put reasoning into my punishments, he will change…’_

Thus began the tumultuous thought process of Tulkas, who was thinking for the first time in his life of very specific misdeeds. For an entire year, he did not touch Melkor. Carefully he observed the Vala’s actions and words – it was clear to know Melkor’s thoughts as he often spoke them aloud. Tulkas had finely attuned himself to Melkor’s mutterings, and heard one day, ‘ _Oh, oh, he’s left me alone. All alone, poor little me, without a single person to love. I must make them myself, yes. All by myself, for me.’_ Listening so intently did not sway Tulkas’s opinion of Melkor being completely insane, but offered some insight as to what he was planning. Tulkas rounded on him that day with a hammer in his hand.

“What’s this I hear about you making things, eh? Pretending to be a smith, are you?”

Melkor nearly jumped out of his skin and would have shed flesh all over the floor had he not been bound to his physical form.

“GYEEH!” he shrieked, falling over himself as he whacked his ass on a table nearby and crumpled to the ground. Immediately he rolled as far as he could get from Tulkas, to have a hammer thrown at him and connect _precisely_ to his hipbone. The shock jarred him into a wailing mess, pain much greater now that he’d been deprived of it for a year. A year had been nothing to him when he knew how to count time. Now, he took in every moment, motion , sight and sound, touch and taste, even the scents of daily life in each second. He was hyperaware of the dull ache spreading through his bones along with the discomfort at his skin, pressed against the clothing he could count every thread on (and had done so already.)

“Answer me.” Tulkas picked up his hammer and moved to break another part of Melkor, this time between his legs.

“Answer!” cried Melkor in his sudden confusion, scrambling for words. Tulkas gave him one chance.

“Think about it.”

Melkor fell silent, trying to think but his mind was of a viscous, goopy substance and would not congeal into anything proper. The hammer flattened all that he owned in his crotch and beneath it, also harming the floor from how hard it was thrown. Melkor’s voice cut off to a breath for his effort to scream. Tulkas left him there, writhing on the floor.

“Do not fail in conversation with me again.”

 

~

 

“He wants to talk, love. Wouldst thou believe it?” Melkor spoke in hushed whispers as he sat in Tulkas’s basement, surrounded by weapons and heavy weights. Finwë sat in his hand, naked and warmed by Melkor’s calm, controlled fire. In his palms he could heat his flesh until it was ready to burst into flame yet stayed as nothing more than a pleasant, hot glow. He had to concentrate to do that. As a result, his speech suffered just a tad.

When Melkor nodded, Finwë replied. He’d only just begun to listen to Melkor, but hadn’t lost enough hope to be entirely compliant. Sooner or later he would be rescued. And then he would go back into Valinor to live with his ungrateful sons.

“I find it hard to believe, as Tulkas is not known to be one for conversation.”

Melkor nodded, and rewarded Finwë with a gentle rubbing atop his head. Finwë had feeling in his hair and glowed at the touch.

_‘Yes, this is going well. I wish for this to continue… I will speak to him some more.’_

“He’s too fast. I have no love for his… mnh, thou knowest…” Melkor prodded Finwë to reply and got “Verbal games” in reply.

“Yes, those. Strange they are… Why might he take a sudden interest in these wordy arts?”

“Perhaps he desires a friendship with you. For such things, communication is key. My kin are especially skilled in this department where you are not…” Finwë glanced into Melkor’s grey face and saw a distinct lack of joy there. “Ah, but do not fret. In time, I shall teach you the ways of our speech.”

“Why?” Melkor’s voice was hollow and deep like a great sea-wind rushing through the mouth of a cave. “Oh, why wouldst thou do a thing for me? Tell me, Finwë. Tell me.”

“It seems we are to be together for some amount of time.” said Finwë, careful and smooth. “It is beneficial for me to be in your favour.”

“Ah! This pleases me!” Melkor ran his fingers in flowing succession over Finwë’s head and down his back, feeling the glorious softness of his hair. Finwë tilted his head up and closed his eyes with a smile.

_‘Thus I have taught him, and here he wishes to please me. He offers me knowledge, a valuable gift like no other. For me, all for me, because he is mine and I have taught him. Yes. Good. Perfect.’_

~

 

It was a self-protecting mechanism of Melkor’s broken mind to not speak of Finwë aloud. As he went about his daily life, he announced the things he did in a low, gentle voice. Making sandwiches. Looking out the window. Observing the facial expressions of the Maiar in Tulkas’s house. Finwë was in his thoughts often but only fleetingly and faded. Looking at the elf while holding him in his hands was a better way of connection for Melkor. Often he could not concentrate, and unfortunately he made mistakes. He usually only made mistakes when he was nervous. Today he had every reason to be. He knew Tulkas would bother him soon – he’d counted the hours, days and minutes and this time was prepared. Finwë sat in his little nest weaved from Melkor’s hair and was comfortable enough with the warm, soft environment. Then he heard something. A long, high-pitched whining.

“Melkor, stop that.” said Tulkas, walking around the corner of a chair and moving closer to his servant. “You seem distracted…”

“I… am…” Melkor stepped away, eyes darting all over Tulkas’s figure. What did he want, what did he have, and why was he not wearing a shirt?

“What are you looking at?” Tulkas moved even closer to Melkor, but not so close that he would have to look up for them to meet eyes. Melkor closed his eyes and answered in truth.

“Nothing.”

Tulkas narrowed his eyes, breathed to remember his patience and spoke again. A throaty growl edged his words.

“What _were_ you looking at, with those flickery little eyes of yours?”

“You.” Two seconds of delay.

“Who am I to you?” The question came soon after Melkor’s response and Tulkas saw his servant’s eyelids twitch. He smirked. _‘This is going well….’_

“Tulkas…?” Melkor’s voice rose with uncertainty, opening his eyes to peer from beneath his furrowed brows.

“No. _Master._ ” Tulkas grabbed Melkor by the throat and held him tight enough to prevent escape. “Do you know that word?”

Had Melkor any wits about him, he would have replied that he knew _everything_ , chiefest of all simple words. He’d been Master to many back in Utumno. Now? It seemed the tables had turned. He wriggled and gasped, taking huge breaths in case Tulkas sought to deny them. A slow, tense squeeze. One thumb running over the lump in Melkor’s throat. He tried to swallow. Instead, he made a hissing gurgly sound like a snake drowning in a sewage pipe. And Aman didn’t even _have_ those. It was far too surreal for his liking, too reminiscent of the restrictions of his bonds…

Tulkas had height over Melkor in his form now, and his muscles could be seen moving beneath tan skin as he adjusted his grip. He smirked into Melkor’s face without knowing he did. “I asked you a question, Melkor.”

Melkor tried to shake his head, feeling his pulse quicken in the manner of a frightened animal being hunted. The need for air was rising deep within him like a great bubble, hot and cold at once. In his mind he first thought he was _Melkor, the Mighty, he did not bow… had no Master…_ but the push of Tulkas came so suddenly that Melkor cried out and he yielded to the overwhelming force. Tulkas did not need hands or a body to penetrate Melkor’s thought. His strength was thick and unforgiving as it pushed deep to where Melkor’s thoughts swirled, and found the resistance to submission at the very core. He could not change who Melkor was – _Yes I can, he has been broken before, he can be broken again –_ but for Tulkas, nothing was impossible. Doubt fled from his mind and all purpose went into stirring up the little resistance Melkor had left, all the while his pressure on Melkor’s physical form only increased. His thumb rubbed around the sensitive parts of Melkor’s neck, up and down, in gentle gliding motions. He knew how to control his strength. He had learned. When he reached any difficulty in his task, feeling Melkor push back, he pressed hard enough to completely deprive his servant of air and told him _Do not fight your Master._ When Melkor breathed next his eyes were white with fright and senseless gibbering spilled from his lips. Tulkas knew he was pleading. It was what he wanted to believe.

“You don’t need to breathe, immortal creature of the dark. Why do you fear this so?” The voice of Tulkas pitched high and lilting in mockery, coupled with rapid squeezes on impulse. Melkor’s body jerked and flailed, his eyes wide enough to use as serving platters. “Oh, that’s right!” Tulkas grinned with genuine amusement and used his other hand to completely still Melkor’s shaking head. “You’re a _coward._ ”

 _‘Trapped in your own body by your own stupidity! Who would’ve thought the Vala of Knowledge would do such a thing? That’s right, Melkor. I know all about you. We all do. We know what you did.’_ Over and over he repeated this until Melkor was screaming at him to stop, the entirety of his mind devoted to begging for mercy. Tulkas laughed, loud and heartily at the genius of his plan – why, this was working perfectly! There were still over three thousand years to go.

_‘You cannot hide from your Master.’_


End file.
